chapter three: Confident that the Reverend is not only dead but was murdered, Mrs. Hazelton phones the police. And they ask her to phone back.
photo by ldyck
Is the Reverend Dead?
Chapter Four
I phone back. “I’d like to report a murder.”
“A what?” a man asks.
“A murder.”
“Oh.”
It isn’t the reaction I’m looking for so I drive down to the police station.
I’m not being a nuisance, I remind myself in the car. I have to report this murder.
Stores and offices are grouped together in two strip malls on our island. Plumper Island Police Station is located between a gym and bakery.
I push open the door. One policeman stands in the corner putting folders into a filing cabinet. Another fills the small room with taps from his computer keyboard. He doesn’t look away from the screen when I walk up to the counter.
“Excuse me,” I say.
He pushes the swivel chair away from his desk and turns to face me. His greying hair is cut short and his stomach spills over his belt. A badge clipped to his uniform identifies him as Officer Bluebottom. Bluebottom? I fight back a chuckle.
“Yes, how can I help you?” Officer Bluebottom asks.
“My name is Mrs. Hazelton and I’m here to report a murder.”
“You witnessed a murder on Plumper Island?”
“Yes. That is, I think so.”
He looks more annoyed than surprised. “You think so?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Hazelton, do you know how many murders have been committed on Plumper Island?” He doesn’t wait for me to hazard a guess. “One. Do you know how many have been reported?” Once again he doesn’t wait. “Ten, in this month, alone, and the month is only half over.”
“Ten? But...how can that...be?”
“Many creative people reside on Plumper Island. Are you a creative person Mrs. Hazelton?”
Like many of my friends, I enjoy photography, painting, quilting, knitting. But I know he doesn’t care about any of that. He wants to know if I see things that aren’t there. And I’m sure everyone who was at church would tell him that I do. But I square my shoulders. “I’m not making this up. I witnessed a murder.”
He returns to his computer.
If he thinks I’m just going to go away, he’s wrong. “You are going to investigate.”
Office Bluebottom keeps his eyes trained on the screen. “Corporal Boyd.”
Officer Boyd closes the filing cabinet. “Ma’am.” He has short red hair and freckles. I wonder if he shaves his baby face. “Shall we return to the scene of the crime, Ma’am?”
I fight my impulse to ask if he wants me to drive and follow him outside.
“Where...” Officer Boyd leads me to the police car. “Did you...” He holds the passenger door open and I ease into the seat. “Last see...” He runs around the car. He must have run because he’s in the driver’s sit by two shakes of a lamb’s tail. “Um… Um…?”
“Reverend Paulson. At church on Sunday,” I tell him.
He flips open a black coiled notebook. The kind you always see policemen use on television. “Reverend Paulson.” His pen moves quickly across the page. “Church. Sunday. Check.” He pockets the notebook and starts the car. “And what was he doing at the time of the...the...”
“You mean when he was murdered? He was giving a sermon.”
“Sorry?” He looks from the road to me. “Giving a what?”
“A sermon.”
“Oh-h-h, people still go to church?”
We pass the Trading Post grocery store and head for the tree that bears the plaque commemorating King George the Sixth’s visit.
“We congregate every Sunday. It’s a time of fellowship. We sing hymns and I especially enjoy the sermons.” We reach the long, winding driveway that will eventually take us to the church. I say a silent prayer for Officer Boyd’s non-church attending soul. Though there really isn’t much hope. “Pull in here.”
Officer Boyd is halfway across the parking lot before I climb out of the car. “Huh? I always thought this was a museum.” His words trail behind him like a flag.
He’s standing on the porch, waiting when I catch up to him.
I turn the doorknob and the door opens. “The church provides sanctuary. It’s never locked.”
“Sounds like an unnecessary risk to me.” We step inside. “Sure looks like a museum—ancient furniture, relics on the wall. Wow, that ceiling’s high.”
“It’s built like a ship,” I tell him. “Noah’s Ark.”
“Noah? Does he go to church?” He chuckles as he marches down the aisle to the pulpit. I follow reluctantly. I don’t want to see poor Reverend Paulson again.
Officer Boyd looks down at the floor and then down the aisle at me. “Where is he?”
“What do you mean?” I reach the pulpit. “Right here.” But the Reverend isn’t there.
“Is he invisible?”
“I don’t understand. This is where he fell. He should be here.”
“Maybe he was feeling better and decided to go for a walk.”
“No, he couldn’t just have walked away. He’s dead, I tell you. Dead. Dead men can’t get up and walk away.”
“You’d be surprised at how many have on this island.”
“Someone must have moved him.” And there is only one person that can have done that—young Ms. Matthews.
“Now, Mrs. Hazelton, calm yourself. Sometimes when we get older our mind gets a little—.”
That annoys me. “I’m not fanciful. I saw what I saw. Reverend Paulson is dead. Dead. Please you have to believe me.”
“Of course, I believe you, Mrs. Hazelton.”
Does he? It’s doubtful. He’s probably only trying to calm me.
“Now what happens?” I ask Officer Boyd in the car as we head back to the station. “Will you investigate further?”
"We don't have a body. You said that there were other people in the church but no one has reported this murder, just you. What exactly would you like me to investigate?"
"Please, I know you think I'm some batty old lady." He tries to discount that statement but I don't listen. "But please, I need your help. I saw what I saw. Please look into it a little more. Make some phone calls. And I don't know, nose around a little."
He promises me he will.
